The Heart of War
by ChimericalParoxysm
Summary: Michael Corner is frustrated, defeated, and the final battle is coming. AU because Cho is still at Hogwarts.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: In response to Amortentia-of-Nyx's Uncommon People Challenge. My given character was Michael Corner.

Also, done in Schermionie's 10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1 format, wherein the chapters get progressively shorter by 100 words each time, starting at 1000 and ending at 100. The word counts are based on Microsoft Word's word count feature, and will all (I hope!) be exact.

Enjoy :)

* * *

Screaming wasn't much of anything anymore at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and so, rather than indulging in concern, Michael Corner carefully drew his mind from the sound and returned it to the male Carrow at the front of the room. It wasn't an easy thing to do though, and his stomach twisted furiously at his blatant betrayal of his own values. The nausea was building just as it always did—he hardly ever ate anymore, though mealtimes were the only portions of the day that were consistently free from the cries of his classmates—and with great difficulty he swallowed the acrid taste in his mouth.

He looked to Terry at his side, then to Cho on his other. Anthony was long gone, though no one knew where. Students at Hogwarts had acquired a new habit of disappearing suddenly and without word or warning, and with each one, the morale and hope of those they left behind would plummet into another level of despair. Most students had taken up delusions of their escape—surely their friends weren't _gone_, they had just found a way to get out, and they were getting help, and everyone would be free soon of this reign of terror, and somehow live happily ever after. Cho was one of these, and Terry and Michael steadfastly refrained from shattering her hope. They, themselves, however, only allowed these dreams to infiltrate that brief moment between being awake and falling asleep—that moment of peace before the terrible storm of their nightmares, nightmares that didn't end when they awoke.

Another scream sent his blood shivering through his body, a terrible mix of furious adrenaline, and chilling fear. He knew, rationally, that there was nothing he could do besides try desperately to hold himself and his friends together, but one day soon… Oh, one day soon he was going to snap—was going to forget his duties to his remaining friends, and do something extremely irrational and stupid. It was building stronger every day, this need to do something, anything, because he could barely take it anymore. It needed to end. It _had_ to end.

Cho was looking at him in concern, as though she knew his thoughts, knew he was close to breaking point. He forced a comforting smile onto his face, and slipped his hand into hers. They'd broken up at the beginning of the year when her constant fear and worry over Harry had led her to confess her residual and very strong feelings for The Chosen One. But there had been no room for resentment or for distance in this place so overrun with fear, and so they were close, even though—or perhaps especially because—their feelings for each other had long dissipated. There was no room for much at Hogwarts anymore. It was a place of terror and despair, where things like love and faith and hope had been too long submerged to have endured; where the strength required to survive consumed the strength required to feel anything beyond impotent anger and sadness.

He looked around the classroom in frustration. There were 15 people in this room, all sitting docilely. Seven of them were Slytherins, plus Carrow, leaving them narrowly outnumbered—one of the strategies set in place to prevent revolt—but several of the others had been in the damned DA, surely they could do it. Just lift their wands, think the spells… Everyone would be caught off-guard. Then they could move to the next classroom—

Terry elbowed him sharply, pulling him back to reality, where he was just one boy. Alone. Helpless. Useless. And he sank back into the seemingly endless pit of empty self-loathing. He didn't notice the look that Cho and Terry exchanged over his head, nor did he pay attention to the rest of the lesson—A History of Muggles and Why We Hate Them—, which tended to be dangerous to a person's health.

Time dragged on immeasurably until Cho shoved a scrap of paper beneath his nose that read, "Muggleborns—steal magic—elaborate!" He shot her a grateful look, and dutifully answered Carrow's question. Cho had just saved him several painful detentions and risked several, herself, and the act was enough to buoy him a little. Hope perhaps had died, but there was still kindness, and there was still altruism, and maybe, just maybe that was something that could be worked with. Maybe that could be enough to rekindle hope and end the Death Eaters' reign over the school. His mind instantly flew into a detailed sequence of abstract and probably impossible plans and schemes he'd never actually bother to follow through on.

As soon as they entered their common room after dinner, Michael was grabbed roughly by the front of his robes, and slammed forcefully into the wall.

"We are _not_ a bunch of sodding Gryffindors, Mike," his friend hissed furiously. "We are Ravenclaws. You will _not_ go barrelling headfirst into some absolutely moronic situation. We'll plan something out. We'll do this logically, when it's logical to bloody well do it."

Michael took a deep breath, trying to slow his racing heart, and also to calm his sudden flare of fury, which seemed always close to the surface lately. "You really still think about house distinctions, Terry? You really think any of that shit matters anymore? Gryffindor or Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff or Slytherin—it doesn't make a fucking difference now. We're all just a bunch of scared _kids_."

Cho's eyes narrowed in confusion. "You're comparing us to Slytherins, Mike? Since when are they like _us_?"

He sighed heavily. "Do you two really not see them? Even Malfoy was scared of this shit last year and he's the one that bloody well let them in. This is a _war_ not a bloody Quidditch match. If you look at things so damned black and white, you're not half Ravenclaw." He shoved Terry off him and stormed back through the portrait, a dull silence lingering in his wake.


	2. Chapter 2

There was a heavy silence in the corridors. Michael could never decide which was most terrible, the oppressive hush weighted down with the promise of pain—like a long and shaky inhale before the tormented scream—, or the tortured cries themselves, which echoed solemnly off the stone walls and seeped through the floors and ceilings. The quiet set him on edge as he walked slowly through the castle that had once held for him such enchantment. His rage and his frustration began to fade though, as he defiantly climbed staircases and crossed hallways. No one was permitted to leave the common room save for classes or for meals, extending the sense of being caged, reinforcing that they were captives—like frantic ants in one of those plastic Muggle toys.

And all to the credit of _Headmaster_ Snape. How many times had Hermione and Ginny raised their voices in his defence? He hadn't deserved their concern, their attention, their bloody _notice_. He thought of the Carrows as his blood began to turn to ice and boil in a frigid rage. Of Voldemort, whose name he could no longer say because of the taboo, but whom he longed to spite in some meaningful way. Perhaps he was going mad, but the idea of punching him in his snakelike face was a recurring one, come what may after the act.

"Peeves," he greeted quietly, with a respectful nod of the head.

"Corner," Peeves returned the gesture and floated silently past. He hadn't pulled a prank in ages. He hadn't denounced a student since last year. He hadn't laughed, or joked, or sang in months. And somehow seeing how defeated the poltergeist was only made it all the worse for everyone else's morale. Filch was now the one who sang, gleeful in the "appropriate discipline measures" now being taken with the students. More than once Professor McGonagall had seemed on the verge of cursing him till his own stupid cat wouldn't recognise him, as he danced exuberantly through the halls with a student to be punished.

McGonagall. Now there was one woman he _didn't _want to run into. She put so much effort, so much energy, into keeping them safe whenever should could—the fierce lioness who had adopted every student as her own cub. He would feel ashamed to be caught repaying her efforts by recklessly stalking the halls. She was brave, every bit the Gryffindor, and she lent them all encouragement, lent them all strength. But never hope.

Michael walked, and walked, and as he did he thought. About everything. And his anger faded once more into something far worse. For it tempered itself into a sort of decisiveness, thought he couldn't tell what he'd decided. Somehow, though, it still felt _good_, as though he'd decided on a course of action. Perhaps he had subconsciously.

Then the screaming started.

It occurred to him that one of his friends might have followed after him, hoping to convince him to return to the safety of the common room. What if they'd been caught? He strained to hear a familiarity in the screams, but it was never possible even to distinguish gender or age beneath the pain. The faces of those he knew in the school—well, or only in passing—flickered behind his eyes. His mind cleared. This was what he'd decided. This was the conclusion he'd drawn. It didn't fucking matter _who_ it was. It didn't matter whether it was his best friend, or some kid he'd never met. It didn't matter if it was a guy or girl, if they were young or old. It didn't matter. Because _it_ changed nothing. But _he_ was going to. Now. Tonight. He was going to end his uselessness.

He ran into something hard and fell with it to the ground.

"'Lo, Michael."

He blinked. Once. Twice. His mouth gaping in surprise. "_Neville_? But you're—We thought—"

"I was dead?" Michael nodded numbly as the boy stood. Was this a trick? "Nah, mate, just caught. I escaped, we have a hideout."

A feeling of hope surged through his chest. Neville, Ginny, and Luna, they'd been the 'leaders' of the DA, but everyone had disappeared. Luna at Christmas, contraband Prophets telling them she'd been abducted. Ginny at Easter, he'd been relieved to see that she was just in hiding. Neville only shortly later, after doing much screaming of his own. After that, their ring leaders gone, the DA had fallen apart, the last of their hope dwindling to nothing. A few resurgences of defiance had burst briefly through, but nothing substantial, and nothing permanent, and soon they had all given up.

"We?"

"There aren't many of us there—I haven't been gone all that long—but there's more than just me."

"Anthony?"

Neville shook his head. "Sorry, mate. I tried. I doubt he's dead though, so best keep hope."

"Hope? In this place?"

Neville smiled. "You lot stopped defying it. Of course you have no hope left. Time to start again, I reckon."

Michael grinned at him, remembering the graffiti and the rescues and other such acts. "Definitely."

"Come on then. They'll stop torturing soon, and leave them alone and locked up. We'll act as soon as they're gone."

Michael squeezed his shoulder tightly. "Mate, you're bloody something."

The look on Neville's face was strange, indiscernible, as they strode silently forward into the darkened corridor.


	3. Chapter 3

They crept silently through the halls, Michael felt like they would be discovered at any moment, but Neville seemed relatively at ease. It made him wonder just how often the boy made this trip. Every night? Every other night? This couldn't just be a one-off.

"What are we doing?" he whispered lowly.

"Lending some morale."

Michael's inquisitive look seemed to somehow pierce the darkness. Neville sighed. "We can't rescue them, because the Carrows would just punish them worse. We can't heal them completely, because the Carrows would just punish them worse. We can't sneak them food or water, because if they got caught, the Carrows would just punish them worse. So we go, and we give them as much comfort as we can, to get them through the night, through tomorrow, through next week, until it wears off." There was a resounding weariness in his voice, like he only barely believed any of this was making a difference, like his own faith was waning. Michael searched desperately for something comforting to say, but what comfort there was to be found in such a place, he didn't know.

"Any word of Harry?"

A small smile crept on to Neville's face. "Not a single one."

They walked and waited in silence until finally they spied Alecto and Amycus leaving the chamber together. Michael rose to cross the hall, but Neville pulled him back, and left Michael's question unanswered. The time passed slowly, minute by tense minute. What felt like hours later, but was probably only about 30 minutes, Neville stood, and motioned for Michael to follow him.

It was a third year Hufflepuff boy. Michael didn't know his name. He wasn't even sure he wanted to know it, somehow positive that it would add substantially to the weight in his stomach. Every surface of his skin was covered in lacerations the most dangerous of which Neville was steadily healing with his wand. The arm and fingers that were broken were already taken care of. But in his eyes was the haunted tortured look that every student level the Carrows' dungeon with. It was a look that would fade only slightly and would never disappear; no spell could heal _that_. Michael could think of no comfort to give the boy. He knew no spells to heal the boy. And so he stood, useless, in the doorway, playing lookout as though it were a respectable duty.

He snarled at himself in his mind. For being squeamish, for having left off the acts of defiance when Neville disappeared, for not knowing what to do—now, ever—, for being the most utterly stupid Ravenclaw to have ever graced the halls of Hogwarts. Neville lowered his wand, leaving bruises, abrasions, and other surface injuries, and handed the boy a bit of chocolate, still speaking in undertones. His voice was made soothing, but efficient.

When they left, he turned to Michael, seeming to perceive what he was thinking. "It takes time, Mate. You're no use if you're going to mope around beating yourself up."

"It's all true though, isn't it? There's a war going on, and I've been sitting around furious with myself for doing nothing, and have still done nothing about anything."

A hand rested on his shoulder. "So do something."

A spark lit in Michael's chest, and they walked in silence until they reached the Room of Requirement.

"Michael, my man! Not you, too!"

"Nah, Ernie, we just bumped into each other."

"Excellent," he pronounced, striding forward to clap him on the back.

Seamus Finnegan came through a portrait in the adjacent wall, laden down with food, which Lavender Brown promptly began dishing out. They'd disappeared about a month ago, but not together. Seamus had gone after "accidentally" blowing up the Muggle Studies room. Lavender had disappeared shortly thereafter, a frantic mess at Seamus' departure—her fellow Gryffindors were dwindling. Dennis and Colin Creevey were sitting in the corner playing Wizard's chess. Everyone had heard about their disappearance after following the Carrows around and bewitching their robes different and ridiculous patterns. Hannah Abbot came over to rest a concerned hand on Neville's shoulder. Michael didn't know what she'd done, but she'd been gone about a month and a half. There were only a few other students there whom he didn't recognize or know well—students whose lives had been threatened or at risk, he presumed.

The tone was strange. There was an easy amicability between everyone, just as there had been in the DA, but beyond that there was a clashing of hope, and of despair, and in it Michael saw his chance. He would set their hope aflame, and maybe, just maybe, it could seep through the stones and into the remainder of the student body.

"Neville, mate, I think we need to plan."


	4. Chapter 4

The following weeks were filled with a littering of strange events. Michael had left the Room of Requirement the next morning and had proceeded to steadfastly recruit several "free" members of the DA into the cause once more and they, in tandem with the members who were in hiding, wreaked small havocs upon the school. Graffiti appeared once more upon the castle walls. Large detention groups were freed once more. One day Alecto entered her classroom—the revitalised Muggle Studies—to find it bare of any furniture whatsoever. Little event after little event was beginning to build hope in the students, and frustrations in the Death Eaters, and each one was viewed as a victory.

When a member was caught, or found to be under considerable suspicion, they retreated to the safety of the Room of Requirement and continued their efforts from there. Cho and Terry were both in hiding now. As were several other members. Michael, Dean, and Susan were the only ones left in the school, and suspicion was beginning to fall heavily upon them. Soon they would have to give up their limited "freedom" and confine their efforts to the nighttime just as everyone else had. Because detentions occurred during the early evening—in the light—this would mean no more detention-freeing, so no one was overjoyed at the prospect.

The corridors were dark once more, and Michael crept along steadily. He remembered being amazed at Neville's fearlessness, and found himself (perhaps recklessly) feeling similarly. There was a first year in the dungeons serving detention, but "intel" said the kid's prospects after detention didn't look great. Essentially it was a rescue mission—get in, grab the kid, take him to the hideout, then get back to bed to avoid suspicion. What was tricky about it was that he was serving detention with Filch, who enjoyed watching his victims hanging upside down in manacles.

Michael reached the doorway of the room and sent one of Fred and George's decoys down the hall then hid around the corner and waited. A minute later, the small explosion dragged Filch away from his amusements. Once he was safely out of sight, Michael tossed some Instant Darkness Powder after him, hoping it wouldn't come too far back towards him, and dashed into the room.

"Hey, kid," he said in a pseudo-calm tone, "What's your name?"

The boy was shaking as Michael cast spells to throw off the wards ove him. "Jimmy Sloper."

"Oh yeah, your brother was on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, right?"

Jimmy donned a brave smile and nodded just as Michael broke him free.

"Alright, let's go, Jimmy." He grabbed his hand and they ran out of the room. They were going to have to zig-zag across the castle, to prevent leading possible pursuit to their doorstep.

After a few minutes, they slowed a bit—walking would be quieter than running—and Michael was starting to relax, thankful for his most recent activities' effect on his fitness. Jimmy seemed to have an endless supply of energy and was almost bouncing with pent-up nervous energy.

"How's Jack doing anyhow?" Michael asked in an undertone, hoping to provide some distraction.

"Oh, he's good," he replied with a sad smile. "Him and my parents went into hiding a couple days ago. The Carrows weren't happy that I couldn't tell them where."

He clapped a comforting hand onto the younger boy's shoulder.

"Oh ho! Not happy, indeed." A hand grabbed each of them from behind and adrenalin flooded Michael's veins. "You. You're the Corner boy. Tisk, tisk. Ravenclaws becoming reckless vigilantes. What next?" Alecto let out a wheezy cackle. It was cut short when Jimmy kicked her in the shins.

Her grip slackened for a moment and Michael used the opportunity to cast a non-verbal stupefy. She slumped to the ground. "C'mon, Jimmy. We gotta run. Amycus could be right behind her."

But the boy just stared at her, a bright rage glittering in his eyes. His wand slowly rose until it was pointing at the Death Eater's form, then, with an awful scream, he dropped it and launched himself upon her, his fists flying every which way, and tears pouring down his cheeks.


	5. Chapter 5

The two boys finally made it to the Room of Requirement; hot angry tears were streaming down Jimmy's face, and his throat was choked with sobs. Susan immediate rushed over to comfort him, but Michael headed over to report to Neville instead. He chuckled to himself a bit at the military feel of it all—like they were vigilante soldiers in a real war-time situation, operating against their general's orders or something. The chuckles died as he realised that it only felt that way because they _were_ essentially soldiers, because they _were_ in a real war-time situation, because they _were_ engaging in covert operations against the orders of those in power. It struck him hard, and he staggered slightly.

"Alright, Mike?" Neville asked distractedly. He was pouring over a map of Hogwarts and muttering occasionally to himself.

"Sure," he replied casually. "Ran into Amycus on the way back, so I suppose I'll be sticking around a while. The kid's safe though."

Neville nodded, raising his head appraisingly. Upon apparently judging them both to be safe, he returned his eyes to the map. "Good work. There's a hammock over there for you." He gestured to a position in the room just as said hammock appeared and Michael took a moment to admire the boy's unerring manipulation of the room.

"Thanks, Neville. How're things going here?"

He sighed. "I would _kill_ for Harry's map of the school right now."

"Trying to plan something out?"

"Yeah. We're going to try to get Peeves in on the next operation. With his help we could go beyond distraction and into destruction. My aim is to tie up classes for the next couple of days. I think everyone needs a bit of a break." He glanced around at the people in the room. They looked tired—exhausted—and Michael could see what he meant, but even so…

"But, mate, that's terrorism you're talking about."

Neville's face was grim. "Yeah, maybe it is. But we won't _hurt_ anybody—we'll do this smart —we will _not_ lower ourselves to their level." He paused. "Just think of it as a slightly different tactic. Instead of letting kids _out_ of detention, we'll prevent them from going in to begin with."

Michael watched him sink into thought and retreated to his hammock. Cho and Anthony and a few other members were missing, clearly out on some sort of assignment, so he decided to use this time to himself to do some of his own thinking.

Neville had changed. Long gone was the shy, nervous boy of fifth year. He had grown, slowly, Michael presumed, into his strength and his ability—perhaps through his association with Harry. But this year… well, this year had changed everyone, really, but Neville most of all. He had looked around him and had seen the need for a leader. He had watched the horrible things happening around them and had seen the need for change. And rather than sitting back and hoping someone would step up, _he_ had stepped up, had taken the initiative, had become their general. He was hardened now—jaded. It was almost a sad thing to see; something so supremely pure, shattered and melded into a weapon of war.

He thought of himself—of the things he'd done that day, the things he'd do tomorrow—and his eyes fell on Jimmy. He remembered how he'd abandoned him once they cleared the door. A little boy, distraught, in tears, reduced to one in a series of menial tasks. Another mission complete. Another battle won. Maybe he was becoming just as tempered a sword.


	6. Chapter 6

During the daytime, the Room of Requirement was a lot like the DA they all remembered under Harry's leadership—practicing spells and training for battle—, but there grew some definite differences as tactics were discussed, and fitness equipment made itself available. The tone in the room became one of a barracks, each soldier just as dedicated to victory as the next. Some moments Michael found himself disconcerted by the warlike mindsets he and his peers were adopting, but then he'd remember the feeling of hopeless futility that he'd experienced beyond the door, and a new surge of dedication to the movement was reinforced in his heart. It was much better to be proactive, than to wallow in despair—certainly he could never go back to it.

Activity was drawing to a close as darkness fell in a hush over the castle. This was usually the time when Neville would assign missions, and the members would prepare themselves to perform their tasks. Not anymore though. The night after saving Jimmy, Michael had been caught and recognized. The resulting torture was enough to cool everyone's heels for a while, but missions had stopped altogether when Neville's gran was taken.

Neville was instead pouring over a textbook for something or other, and steadfastly ignoring the distracting conversations around him. Most of the talk was about the rumour that Harry, Ron, and Hermione had broken into and escape from Gringotts. His eyes were drawn suddenly to the passageway to the Hog's Head.

"I'll be right back," he said lowly, striding through the portrait and leaving a wave of worry over the room.

When he returned moments later, a big grin on his face, it was to a chorus of gasps and exclamations. The prodigal trio had returned. Soon people were filtering continuously through the entrance—friends and family and peers—, and Harry and Luna disappeared to search for the Diadem. The room was tense as they waited, and though the Weasley twins put in a good effort, the laughs elicited were strained.

They were right on the precipice now, Michael could feel it. Anticipation flooded his veins and nerves made his fingers shake. The nervous energy rose as the minutes passed and Michael took to pacing the room.

"Michael, you're making me nervous," Cho whispered, tugging at his hand.

He offered her what he hoped was a comforting smile and moved to sit back down beside her. "Sorry," he said sheepishly, "I just feel—."

Harry burst into the room.

"Harry, what's happening?" Professor Lupin asked urgently.

"Voldemort's on his way—" The boy said this all with urgency, yes, but not a trace of terror and Michael felt a swell of respect mingled with his sudden unease. Cho squeezed his hand tightly and he pushed the fear away. It was time and they were prepared for this. For battle. His and Terry's eyes met and they nodded determinedly, standing to join the crowd that was pushing from the room.

To war.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: I combined parts seven and eight into one chapter, because they're short. Enjoy :)

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Voldemort's high, cold voice had penetrated the hearts of the student body; Michael had seen it on each face. The members of Dumbledore's army were ready though, and Parkinson's panicked assertion that Potter should be handed over had set determination over the room once more as they'd risen and banded together. Because they were certain, they were sure, they were confident in their cause and in themselves, and together nothing could break that, though it might break their bodies. In their conviction lay their strength.

He watched as students were evacuated and wondered briefly whether any of those still in the hall, whether any of those that had stood in Harry's defence, were on the other side. He carefully swept the thought away. It was time for faith and for trust in those with whom he was allied; mistrust led to hesitation, and hesitation to error, and error to death; a thought which sent a chill down his spine.

Time soon blurred, rushing past as though in the lull of a single heartbeat, and suddenly he was marching out into the grounds—the battle field—Professor Lupin as his commander. Terry was with him and they moved as one, drawing strength from one another's presence, but not Cho—she was relegated to the twins' team, defending the passageways into the school. But the two strode through the doors and immediately into the fight, and there was no time for worrying.

Michael didn't know the names of the Death Eaters, the names of those he fought. He didn't know the name of the man that sent Terry tumbling, lifeless, into the cool grass. He didn't know the name of the curse he deflected from the pink-haired Auror who dashed into Professor Lupin's trembling arms. He watched men and women and students fall around him as he dodged and cast and shielded and ran mechanically. Dementors glided across the field and he reflexively sent his shimmering wolfhound out to defend them. Giants and Acromantula swarmed towards the castle, and he forced himself to obey Lupin's order to leave them to the defences.

He watched as his commander fell, never to rise again; as the man's wife leaped furiously into his place, tears streaming over her cheeks; as her blurred vision caused her to miss the curse flying from her peripheral; as she lay, a grief-stricken tragedy, beside the man she'd clearly loved.

xXx

His team fell apart without Lupin, and Michael found himself taking charge of the group. Time passed in a swirl of victories and defeats, of blood and sweat, that seemed both endless and fleeting. Then Voldemort called a ceasefire. A heavy hush fell over the living, blanketing the fallen in a perverse mockery of peace, and shivering unease through Michael's veins. No one yet cried for the dead. No one yet dropped their guard in foolish hope. Some ventured forth to comfort the injured and to heal them or get them to safety. Others began, silently, to gather the dead.

Michael moved to help this second group when a twig broke behind him. He spun, reflexively drawing his wand and silently casting a disarming spell. Cho's wand flew easily into his outstretched hand and he breathed his relief even as she dashed into his arms. Thoughts of Polyjuice flitted through his mind momentarily, and he once more reminded himself that this was a time for faith, as he wrapped his arms tightly around her.

She didn't cry, not even a single silent tear, and he found himself proud of his peers' strength. Proud of his own. The gathered dead now counted eighteen and continued to grow, but there was something he had to do before he helped. He slipped his hand into Cho's, and led her towards the body of Remus Lupin.

"Michael?" she inquired softly. He just shook his head, squeezing her hand softly before dropping it.

His professor was lighter than he had expected, and Michael lifted him and then returned him gently to the grass with shameful ease. Michael didn't bother to imagine them sleeping as he looked upon them, now side-by-side as they'd been in life, but he smiled solemnly and returned his hand to Cho's.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Last chapter, yeah! And I managed to get exact word counts the whole way through! Hope it's been enjoyed :)

* * *

It was over. The sounds of grieving, of celebration, reached Michael's ears. Bodies lay upon the floor like carefully placed dinnerware on a well-set table. All except Voldemort, who no one had deigned to touch—the unwelcomed guest to their dinner party.

Michael stood numbly at the edge of the hall, his gaze almost idly, distractedly, seeking out those he knew. Cho was at the opposite side, a Mediwitch taking care of her. Neville stood near the centre of the room, his hand in Hannah's and small smile on his face in spite of the wounds he'd received. Luna was pensively overseeing the grief of the Weasley family, though her focus seemed mostly to be on Harry.

Michael watched as she walked over to him, and spoke briefly. He didn't bother to look up as Luna shouted her diversion, but instead smiled wryly. She was something, that girl, he thought as Harry made his stealthy exit. He stood a while longer. Something was wrong with him, he knew. As the world went on around him, heavy with emotion, he stood empty upon its edge.

"Alright, mate?"

He forced a smile so fake it burned. A nod, and Seamus continued on.

xXx

Days passed slowly through a thick sludge of grief and mourning. Terry and Anthony were gone, as were many others—good and bad. In the aftermath of the destruction, that they died for a cause they believed so strongly in whispered no comfort to the survivors.

The void that filled their passing was vast, but Michael found himself comforted by the pain and by the tears that streamed down his cheeks at each funeral. For they told him that, though cast as a weapon of strength during war, he was wrought not of steel, but of flesh, soul, and heart.


End file.
